by Ruth Druart
Sarah’s not sure whom this speech was meant for. She wonders if it’s David’s way of letting Samuel know what he thinks. Of course she knew this first meeting would be difficult, that Samuel would most likely reject them. They prepared themselves for this, agreed they would have to be patient, that they would have to give him time.
Suddenly Samuel makes a strange noise, clutching his stomach, bending over double.
Both Sarah and David reach for him. But it’s the deputy mayor who takes Samuel by the arm, leading him out of the room. Unfortunately, they don’t make it in time, and Samuel vomits everywhere, lumps of orange flying out of his mouth onto the dark blue carpet. Then he collapses against the man in the pink shirt.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Paris, July 18, 1953
SARAH
The doctor said that Samuel’s fainting fit was due to long-distance travel and his body losing its natural rhythms; that he would be fine in twenty-four hours once his internal clock reset itself. Sarah doesn’t believe a word of it. She knows it’s the trauma of leaving the people he’s known as his parents, the people he loves. She couldn’t look as the doctor slapped his face, bringing him around. She hung her head low as he gave him some pills with a glass of water, looking up just in time to see his head go limp again. Guilt filled her heart, taking away all the joy she’d felt before.
David carries him out to the car now, laying him on the back seat. Sarah gets in the other side, lifting Samuel’s head, holding it on her lap. She strokes his hair, amazed at the lightness and smoothness of it. Love for him fills her aching heart, and she wants to, needs to absorb every little detail of him, to hold on to him and never let him go.
As the driver maneuvers the car through the narrow streets toward their home in Le Marais, David turns around in the front seat to look at her. She doesn’t know what to say to him. This isn’t how they were supposed to bring their son home, drugged and unconscious.
“David, he’ll be all right, won’t he?”
He just carries on looking at her, his pupils dark pools of sorrow, his face pale like the moon.
“Maybe we should have gone to America to meet him first. This is too traumatic for him.”
David twists himself right around, so he can talk to her. “Sarah, we knew it wouldn’t be easy. We’re going to have to be very strong. Remember what the psychologist said about children being highly adaptable. He just needs time. We will be a family again.”
Family. What does it really mean? She’s missed the most important years of Samuel’s life: his first smile, his first steps, his first day at school, learning to read, making friends, his curiosity. She wasn’t there to answer his questions as he tried to make sense of the world. These are the things that make a parent. She’s a stranger to him, and he to her. Not only a stranger, but a foreigner too.
She can’t dismiss the sinking feeling that they’ve made a terrible mistake, bringing him back to Paris like this. No one stopped to question whether they were doing the right thing. It was all so clear in their minds: that the child should be returned to his true parents. There’s that word again. Parents. She’s not sure she really feels like one. A terrible feeling clenches at her heart, telling her that she doesn’t even know this boy.
When they get to the apartment, David carries Samuel up the stairs, all the way to the fourth floor where they live, into the bedroom. He lays him down on the bed, takes off his shoes and jacket, and covers him with a blanket. Sarah watches from the doorway as he kneels on the floor next to the bed, leaning over their son, stroking his hair back from his forehead to kiss him. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small wooden box. She steps farther into the room, standing behind him now, watching as he kisses the box, then places it on the pillow next to Samuel’s head. She can feel the tears behind his eyes as if they were her own. Then she sees them slide silently down his face.
David, who’s been her anchor through all these years. David, who understands her pain but refuses to let it drown her. David, who’s always held her up, keeping her head above water, when all she wanted to do was close her eyes and let her body sink. She’s only seen him cry once, when she found him after they were evacuated from Auschwitz. He collapsed in the snow, hanging on to her, saying her name over and over again, like a prayer, tears streaming down his face.
He is a resilient man and his faith is as solid as a rock. But she’s not sure that resilience is what is needed right now. Resilience is too rigid, too hard. Instead of holding steadfast to their principles and their rights, maybe they should keep more of an open mind. The trouble is, she doesn’t know what is needed. She’s lost, and nothing is what it seemed.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Paris, July 25, 1953
SAM
Last week, on my first day here, I woke up in a strange bed and found a little wooden box on my pillow. It looked like a mini treasure chest. Parts of it were carved out and it had a small hook to open it. I pulled the hook back; the inside was covered in red velvet, and it was actually filled with mini treasure. There were some coins, a chocolate wrapped in gold paper, shiny colored stones, and a piece of paper rolled up and sealed with real red wax, like a scroll. I opened the paper and read the message. It was in English: Samuel, our son, you are the treasure we never stopped looking for. I crumpled it up and pushed it back in the box.
A whole horrible week has gone by now. I sleep most of the time, and sometimes, when I’m lucky, I have nice dreams about home.
But this morning, noises from the kitchen pull me out of my dream. I try to block them out and slip back into sleep. It was sunny, and I was just about to bite into a ball of chocolate ice cream. I don’t always have good dreams, so I want to hang on to this one. I’m almost there when I hear my name. I bet they’re talking about me, saying how terrible I am.
It’s all so different here. So horribly different. Everything is old. It’s not a place for children. Even the smells are old, like polished furniture, cigar smoke, and smelly cheese. I miss the smells of home: warm doughnuts, cotton candy, the oily fumes from the Funland rides.
The people are different here too. They’re pointier, pricklier. They kiss you on the cheek, but it’s not a real kiss. It just floats by. I always stand there like a stick, pretending I’m somewhere else. I miss the hugs in America—warm and soft. The people here don’t smile either when they meet you. They say bonjour with straight lips, not like home, where people smile all the time. Everything is bigger and better in America.
The only thing I kind of like is goûter, the snack they have in the afternoon—baguette still warm from the boulangerie, stuffed with squares of dark chocolate. The rest of the food is a bit weird, and at mealtimes it all comes separately. First there are vegetables, like grated carrots, then a piece of meat or fish, and then after that, sometimes salad. Usually there’s dessert, but often it’s just fruit cut up. And you’re never allowed to help yourself to something from the cupboard or the refrigerator. It’s always got to be served properly. They don’t even know what a hot dog is! They don’t have soda pop, just some purply-red syrup they mix with water, called grenadine. It doesn’t taste like anything.
Maybe the strangest thing, though, is the bathrooms. The actual toilet is a hole in the ground, and you have to stand on ridges on the side, then crouch over the hole to pee or poo. My feet usually get splashed. It’s not even in the apartment; it’s out in the hall.
At least I’ve stopped crying; well, in the daytime anyway. At night I sometimes wake crying when I have the nightmare that keeps coming back. The one where I’m running through forests in the dark, jumping over wide creeks, falling down hidden craters, running, running till my legs stop working. Then I give up and lie there terrified, waiting for the monster to eat me. Just as it’s about to bite into my foot, I scream. The scream wakes me up. In my nightmare, I scream loud, but when I wake, the real sound is tiny. I want to put the light on, but I’m worried the monster is hiding somewhere in the room, wa
iting to snap my hand off. I want to cry out for someone, but I’m too scared of my own voice to shout. Anyway, there’s no one here who can help me. So I lie there trying to find happier thoughts. I make pictures in my mind of the beach, the ocean, the schoolyard filled with playing and shouting. Sometimes it helps me go back to sleep.
There’s an empty place inside me. Every morning when I wake, it’s there. It never goes away. The memory of Mom being taken away by the cops makes it open up larger, so I try not to remember that. She screamed my name again and again, and I think she even hit an officer, or was that me? My memories are getting jumbled.
Everyone keeps telling me, “This isn’t your fault.” I don’t understand what they mean. Why would it be my fault? It’s because I was born in the wrong place, like Mom said. But I didn’t get to choose where I was born. If I had, I never would have chosen France, that’s for sure. I hate this place.
It hurts in my tummy, and my legs are itching like mad again.
“Sam-uel, le petit déjeuner est prêt.” Beard Man’s voice comes through the door.
I roll over to face the wall. “Go away, go away. My name’s Sam,” I whisper into my pillow.
Suddenly he’s in my room, opening the windows to pull back the metal shutters. Light comes flooding in.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il fait beau.” His voice is falsely bright and cheerful. He leans down and ruffles my hair. “As-tu bien dormi?”
I drag myself out of bed, putting on my slippers and dressing gown, and then sit on the edge of the bed. I’m in no hurry. I look around the room, at the wooden airplane hanging from the ceiling on a wire coil, hovering over the desk. At the framed photo on the wall of some people dressed in black—or is it just that the photo is black and white? Maybe they’re really wearing bright purple, or green. Anyway, no one’s smiling in it. On the same wall, there’s a clay bust of a sailor, with bright yellow hair and dressed in a stripy blue-and-white shirt. It gives me the spooks.
“Allez, Samuel.” Beard Man moves toward the door.
I have no choice but to follow.
Breakfast is a basket of cut-up baguette and a bowl of hot chocolate. It’s spread out on a plastic yellow tablecloth. They don’t use plates; instead they collect the crumbs up afterward in their hands and throw them out the window. They dip their bread into their bowls of coffee, but I don’t dip mine into my hot chocolate. I spread plenty of butter and apricot jam on my bread. How disgusting to have all those crumbs floating in your drink! And who ever heard of drinking out of bowls? They don’t have any proper cups in the house, just tiny coffee cups, like a little girl’s tea set.
They talk, but I don’t understand a word. I’ve only learned to say oui for yes and non for no.
After breakfast, I go to my room to get dressed. My clothes are all folded up in a shiny wooden wardrobe that smells like it’s a hundred years old. There’s a large metal key in the door—I’ve tried it, and it actually works. You could really lock someone in there. Most of my clothes are my own from home. Somehow they arrived here, just like I did.
I pull some jeans out from the shelf, and my yellow T-shirt. As I get dressed, I wonder where they’ll take me today. I’ve already seen the Eiffel Tower. I looked at all of Paris as though I were on a plane.
Beard Man opens the door and walks right in. “Allez, Samuel. Nous allons sortir, toi et moi.”
Somehow I understand that he means we’re going out. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. I get up and follow him out of my room, then out the front door, down the staircase, and onto the street.
The pavement’s so narrow we can’t walk next to each other. This is good, ’cause I have a horrible feeling he would take my hand if he could. Instead he walks behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder like a lead weight. Sometimes he squeezes it to make me slow down, then he points at something, gabbling away in French.
There are no houses in Paris, no yards either. It’s all apartments and funny little shops. There are patisseries, which are really cake shops, except the cakes are different from home. There’s shiny bread in the shape of braids and moon-shaped cookies covered in icing sugar. I’d much rather have a jam doughnut. As we walk along, I look up at the small windows sticking out from the rooftops. I try to imagine Nazis running up the narrow staircases, shouting and shooting.
Beard Man directs me into a shop. A bell rings as we enter, and a man comes out from behind a curtain at the side. He shakes Beard Man’s hand, then kisses him on each cheek. I’ll be next. I get ready for the prickly beard, but the man just shakes my hand, holding on to it firmly, looking at me with dark brown eyes. I look away. I notice watches and gold chains shining out from glass cabinets. The man goes back behind the counter and lifts out a tray of gold rings on a red velvet cloth.
Beard Man studies them. Then he points at one, and the man takes it out, turning it around in his long fingers. He replaces the tray under the counter and brings up a set of metal rings held together by a circle of wire.
Beard Man takes my hand, placing it on the counter. I try to pull it back, but he holds on to it tightly. “Allez, Samuel. C’est un cadeau pour toi.”
I think cadeau means present. I let my hand go limp.
The man puts metal rings over my middle finger until one of them fits. “Bien, très bien. Je fais ça toute de suite.”
“Merci, mettez ‘S. L. 1944’ à l’intérieur, s’il vous plaît.”
We go to Maison de la Presse next. I look at the sheets of paper piled up on the shelves and can’t help feeling impressed at all the different colors with their matching envelopes. I imagine myself writing a letter to Mom on purple paper, because that’s her favorite color. She has purple soap at home, called lavender. “Just for me,” she said when I once picked it up. “Boys don’t want to smell of lavender.” This unexpected memory kicks me painfully in the tummy.
Beard Man’s busy talking to the man behind the counter. I see him take out a glass case full of pens. “Voilà, les stylos plumes,” he says in a proud voice.
“Viens, Samuel.” Beard Man holds out an arm.
I take a small step forward, deliberately missing his arm.
“C’est pour l’école. Tous les enfants doivent utilizer un stylo plume à partir de six ans. Tu peux en choisir un.” Beard Man looks at me.
I guess he’s saying I can choose a pen. Even though I understand, I stand there like I don’t.
“Samuel, s’il te plaît.” He swings his open hand over the pens, making it clear that I have to choose one.
I look at them. I like the light blue one best. I take my hand out of my pocket and lift the pen from the tray. When I take the lid off, I see a pointed nib. I push my thumb onto it, testing out its sharpness.
“Faîtes attention!” the man behind the counter shouts.
He makes me jump. I drop the pen.
Beard Man picks it up and gives it back to him. “Oui, celui-ci. Merci.”
The man nods, but I can tell he’s cross by the way he rolls his lips as he places the pen in a wooden box. Slowly he hands the box to me.
“Merci, monsieur,” Beard Man whispers in my ear.
I don’t say a word. I can’t speak French. The words refuse to make themselves. But I want the lavender paper, and an envelope too. I try to work out what to say; then, like a baby, I just point at the paper.
“Mais oui, bien sûr, du papier aussi.” Beard Man is smiling. “De quelle couleur?”
This question is easy to understand. “Lavender,” I say.
“Lavande?”
“Oui, lavender.”
With a small frown, Beard Man picks out a sheet of the purple paper. Now I point to the envelopes. I can see he’s confused. He’s wondering why a boy would want purple paper. Maybe he’s guessed what I want it for, and now he won’t get it for me, but then he reaches for an envelope too.
After he pays, we leave the shop, his hand on my shoulder again, steering me along. We go back to the jeweler’s, and the man there produces a small box
. I look the other way, but out of the corner of my eye I see him take out a gold ring. Beard Man turns around to show it to me, pointing at the engraving on the inside, S. L. 1944. He holds it out, and I know he’s waiting for me to give him my hand so he can put it on my finger.
But I don’t want it. Rings are for girls. I scratch my leg instead.
He leans down, pulling my hand away from my leg. “S’il te plaît, Samuel.”
I go numb as the ring is fed onto my finger. It makes me feel like a dog with a shiny new collar. Then Beard Man kisses me, holding on to my shoulders as he looks into my eyes. “Je t’aime, mon fils.”
I can’t wait to get home so I can scratch my legs in peace. They’re burning up.
When we get back to the apartment, Pretend Mom isn’t there. I go into my bedroom, sit on my bed, and pull up my jeans leg. The patches of red-raw skin are getting larger. I scratch them, digging my nails in. It feels good. Now they’re hot and numb. I know the pain will come later.
I sit at the desk, staring down at my hand, at my finger, at the ring. I wonder how much it’s worth. I bet it’s real gold.
Beard Man walks into the room, smiling at me as if everything is okay. I look away, my eyes blank. He puts his hand on my shoulder, reaching up for a book on the shelf above the desk.
“Est-ce que tu connais Tintin?”
